


Found.

by carrieonmywaywardson



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - WWII, M/M, also i do not know how to rate stuff, damn son, hopefully the next movie doesn't cave and go PG or something, i mean he is really good man, i'd do anything to see minho use a gun, newt is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrieonmywaywardson/pseuds/carrieonmywaywardson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wind stings his face.</p><p>He grips the railings until the frost seeps into his very bones, because if he sits down now he's certain he'll burst into hysterics.</p><p>The boy's hands shake, but it has nothing to do with the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the both of them aren't technically boys anymore? Or maybe it depends on your point of view. Read on and find out. In any case, enjoy!
> 
> On a side note, this also isn't beta'd, so yeah.

He can see the shore now.

The boy paces and paces. He keeps pacing until he can feel his legs, and joins the others leaning on the metal rails. He'd been sitting for far too long anyway, staring into space, thinking of nothing. He's resolved to taking his cap off, letting the wind sting his face. He grips the freezing bars until the frost seeps into his very bones - if he lets himself sit down again, he's certain he'll burst into hysterics. He twirls the cap in his chilly fingers around, again and again.

The boy's hands shake, but it has nothing to do with the cold.

Someone moves beside him, and the thing is plucked out of his grip. He starts and turns, an objection on his tongue, and relaxes when he sees a smirk on the man's face. "Nervous?"

The boy sighs, relieved. "You do that to all your comrades?" he counters, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he feels terrible. But the man only pauses, as if recalling the past few months, and brightens. "Not really."

On a closer inspection, the man isn't that much older, but carries with him the impression of experience - a few years ahead in the field, worry lines creasing his dark face. The man hands his cap back, and the boy looks away then. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

"Did they... come back? With you?"

The man nods, leans against the metal with him. "They did. I was told," and he smiles, then, "that they had to make it."

The boy puts on his cap. "Who told?"

His face softens, and the boy knows the expression too well. "Scrawny guy. Had a limp. Navy didn't want him, probably a good thing. Had to keep him safe." He exhales. "Made me promise to be the one to bring my men back, no matter what. He was very insistent." As if on instinct, the man touches his breast pocket. The boy can only wonder what he keeps in it. "Made me promise to come back." He smiles fondly, remembering, and the boy feels a sharp pang of nostalgia as he is reminded of what may or may not be waiting for him, tries not to imagine messy brown hair,  dotted freckles and brown, brown eyes. It's too painful to long for, not when he's so close to coming home.

_Home._ He blinks back sudden tears.

"What about you, then?" The man's deep voice brings him back to their conversation. "Your men?"

The boy tugs his cap down further, tries to shield his eyes. "No." He shakes his head, absently rubbing the side of his face, memories flitting through his thoughts. Grenades, shrapnel, injuries. A lot of blood. Too much. Too late. "My best man, blown to bits." He smiles ruefully. "Went out so close to making it back." All those years; friendship wasted on nothing. He can still recall the very first day: confused, frightened recruits packed together, seated next to each other on a crowded flight to war.

They were barely eighteen.

He's never liked wars.

The ship's horn blares, a long, vibrating sound that does nothing to ease the restlessness inside him. The port lurches into view, and the boy's chest aches so much it's painful. They both get shoved around as the soldiers gather to watch the shore. He's too sorrowful to complain.

"Listen," the man puts up a hand, and he does. "They're cheering." The metal rails are the only things holding back the people now, on land and on board alike, and he has to strain to hear what's the man's saying.

The man pats his arm, a gesture of sympathy, and he doesn't know why he wants to cry but he fights the urge. "I'm sorry about your friend. Must've been a great man."

He can't help the tear that escapes him now. "Ben was great." He was his friend, and will always be.

"Guess this is it then. I'm Alby," the ship wails again as it docks, and before the boy can offer his own name, say his thanks, ask _do you have a family, do you have someone_ __waiting?__ , the crowd swallows him, and men run whooping down the outstretched bridge into waiting arms. He stands his ground.

He feels terrified.

The mass on board eventually lessens, and he's forced to leave. He trudges along aimlessly, and it isn't until he reaches a lamppost that he finally steels himself to look around.

People are reunited left and right, and he can't take it. The ship is a bulky outline against the sky, but he is still too close to it. He looks and searches as the minutes pass, movements turning frantic, because _I'll be here, Min, always, and I'd wait forever -_

As the crowd eventually dissipates, reality hits him.

Thomas isn't here.

He could only stand there for another moment, lost in a trance. When he tries to stay upright, he can't do much else than slump to the pavement, tearless sobs wracking his body. For an endless moment, all he could think was why he didn't stay; why Thomas, _his_ Thomas -

"Minho?"

That's it, then. Going through the first stages of grieving; he's been briefed countless times, nonacceptance -

"Minho. Minho, _please_."

He snaps his head up, and sees a ghost.

They stay there, not moving. Thomas recovers first, sinks to the ground, crying, "oh, Minho, I knew, I __knew__ _-_ "

Minho doesn't move until Thomas touches his face, he's here, he's __safe__ _-_ and he surges against the boy, clutching him like he might disappear again, from him, from his _life -_

And his life had been aligned again and again, twisted and turned and _taken away_ from him, but Thomas is here. Thomas is here with him.

They breathe in each other and remain on the sidewalk until the sun starts to sink, and Thomas pulls away, cups his face, traces his eyebrows, his scars. "What happened - "

Minho shakes his head. "Nothing good. War. The orphanage - "

"It's there." Thomas wipes his eyes, and they're wide and frightened under wet eyelashes when he looks up at Minho. The fading light turns them golden brown, and he's still beautiful - "It's okay. Everything's okay. You're - I couldn't get to you, and - " and Minho can't stand it, he kisses Thomas, and he fits in Minho's arms flawlessly even after all these years, and Minho cries.

After four years, two boys are reunited.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried this style of writing. I've never really learned about WWII in school, just a few dates and nothing more. Minho is a year older (I assumed boys joined the war at that age) which explains why Thomas wasn't also recruited. Other than that, this much is what I gathered from other stories XD please don't hate me, and I'm sorry if this was complete bullshit (and it is), I just wanted some war AU and Minho in a uniform and that was it, I swear. *wishfully thinks about fanart* Unfortunately (or rather, fortunately??), I am a crappy artist. Actually I suck at everything. Please knock (or barge down the fucking door, if you prefer) if you spot typos, and as always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://www.otp-dilemma.tumblr.com). Lots of love guys. Happy New Year!


End file.
